i look down the cuts in his arm,
not “on”, but “in”
what new thing have i become?
he wonders idly, what if,
what if now, the morning after, i pry each wound re-open,
what if i piss on my arm, what if i smear my shit over the wounds
spiders or leeches or metal shavings
what if what if what if-
what of it?
what new sense is this, what new boundary drawn around me?
i look in the cuts of my arm
not “at”, but “in”
like some new orifice, some new mouth
some new voice speaking to me
revealed suddenly as if some virgin moment
grounding me once again
same as i never was